


Angel of Small Death

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/F, idk if it's explicit per se i'm just too tired to deal with thinking so EXPLICIT IT IS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: A place to shove all my Jaltora stuff that’s too short to be a stand alone piece





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Breadcrumble and Wesakechak and corgasbord and WiredLain, my co-conspirators. Let the record reflect that I am -not- the one who wrote the first fic, but I am the one who started this. -coughbrebcough-

The Dragon of Echigo knows empathy as well as Jalter knows peace of mind- that is to say, it’s not impossible, but such a rare occurrence that Jalter doesn’t know what to make of herself, allowing herself to find rest in Kagetora’s arms. Kagetora, though only a dragon in name, isn’t as immune to Jalter’s charms as she thinks- she beams at the Alter nestled against her body, a softness in her smile that Jalter knows she can say only she’s ever seen. This is the side of Kagetora that no one could have suspected to exist, hidden behind an empty smile and manic eyes, wrapped up in the mantle of divinity and a love of combat.

Well, Jalter’s never shied away from fighting, and her stance on the divine has been ‘fuck it’ from day one. 

That’s how she finds herself covered in equal amounts of bite marks and bruises, a soreness creeping down the peak of her legs into her thighs that she’ll feel twice as hard in the morning, but Jalter regrets none of it. Her normally pale skin is flushed and damp with sweat, but she’s outlasted Kagetora, who’s now content to satisfy herself by nuzzling the crown of Jalter’s head and running admiring fingers over the marks she’s left. The god of war is by no means a gentle lover, but for those who can withstand her fury, there’s a glimpse of what Nagao Kagetora could have been- a kind partner, a patient friend. 

It helps, though, that Jalter is in her own way as inhuman as Kagetora. To her, kindness is a gentle lick of the fire that burns within her incessantly, and patience nonexistent. But Kagetora is nothing if not resilient; she weathers whatever Jalter throws at her, be it spears or fire or insults, and smiles through it all, enjoys the fact that Jalter will never bring her down as much as Jalter lives for the thrill of anger running hot in her veins, driving her on the battlefield.

Kagetora’s bed is as much a battlefield, but here their scuffles end with warmed sheets and muffled cries, the arching of Jalter’s back like a prayer towards the heavens. And now, Jalter lets her fingers rest on Kagetora’s shoulders, hardened muscle under soft skin, closing her eyes to the steady rumble of Kagetora’s heart beneath her cheekbone. 

Kagetora is not the first partner Jalter’s taken, but she is one that Jalter keeps coming back to. She tells herself it’s because Kagetora is impossible to wear down; that she keeps chasing after Jalter to try and stop her from causing even more chaos is a testament to that. But, if Jalter is feeling brave, she might admit that it’s because she feels some sort of connection. Briefly, her mind wanders to a city of skyscrapers and neon lights that dominated the stars, to the quiet understanding she’d found there, that vengeance drove her body, but her heart remained uniquely hers.

Jalter tugs on Kagetora, pulls her down just enough to press a searing kiss to her lips, there and gone as quick as flashover. Kagetora tilts her head slightly, gives Jalter that smile-  _ her _ smile, Jalter thinks, proof that even the seemingly emotionless god of war still feels with a human heart. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on the bus and this is entirely bread's fault

They’ve taken shelter in one of Chaldea’s many maintenance closets, this one so small that Jalter finds her hands pressed against the toned plateau of Kagetora’s stomach of their own accord. She bites down on her lip hard, focusing on the sweet tang of freshly drawn blood rather than the exquisite feeling of Kagetora’s hands working their way through the straps of her armor, sending metal plates and her sword belt clattering into an empty bucket.

“Don’t even understand why I’m here,” Jalter breathes, heated and thick with emotion, into the air above them. The back of her head digs into the wall; she hikes a leg up the opposite wall, hooks it around Kagetora’s hip. She hears Kagetora’s soft giggle as skin touches skin- she’s pulled off her bracers and her gloves, caresses Jalter’s thighs, still red and tender from a long night the week before.

“Hurry up,” Jalter orders through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll put you in your place like I do to every other dragon that crosses me.” It’s an empty threat, but Kagetora complies, grazes her lips over Jalter’s neck to a throaty moan and gauntleted fingers gripping her hair, segmented knuckles catching and pinching, a faint tingling pain that only makes Kagetora dig in harder. There’ll be another spot soon that Jalter can’t hide, but this time unlike all others, she welcomes it. She wants to be seen with Kagetora’s bite flush above the join of her collarbones, to have everyone know someone sees her fit enough to grab by the throat, as much a match in bed as in battle.

That’s the whole reason why they’re crammed together in this closet, Jalter’s hand now firmly stuck in Kagetora’s stupid black-streaked hair, that alone going to keep them trapped in here for another few minutes. But that’ll be later; now, Kagetora works calloused fingers along Jalter’s slit, feels the welcome hiss of frustration ruffle her bangs.

“Damn you, Kagetora,” she bites, “Do it already or get fucking lost—” And then a string of swears leaves trembling lips as Kagetora slides into her; their foreheads knock together, and Jalter is reminded of how tall the other is as her weight settles on Kagetora’s thigh- of _ course _ that damn Lancer has enough strength to keep her upright like this.

But, though Jalter will never admit it, she wants to be held right now. Kagetora’s touch chases away the thoughts that find her every so often, hunting her down like the English soldiers had hunted her original, and with them the question of _ what was so wrong with her that only a madman could stand her? _

The answer is obvious; she’d been made for him, after all. But the thirst for vengeance he’d planted in her soul had burned away any chance of friendships or closeness, all save for the Lancer who cranes her head to kiss the vulnerable curve of Jalter’s neck, even more inhuman than she, equally so not by her own doing.

But even then, Kagetora has somehow found contentment with her existence. Jalter tugs Kagetora closer with her leg, bears down with her full weight and a grunt of frustration. She wants more, and Kagetora, ever the compliant servant of humanity that she is, eagerly gives it to her.

This is why she goes to Kagetora of all others, who might never feel anything beyond faint amusement for her, but could at least understand her. She will never be burned away by all of Jalter’s rage if she can never feel it, and what does that leave them with?

Kagetora’s hand between her thighs, the tangling of stuttered breaths, a knot in Jalter’s stomach that just won’t go away- enough for now, and enough reason for her to return to Kagetora later.

(And Kagetora, ever her unknowing match, feels the growing warmth gathering in her chest, and smiles, because it’s the right thing to do).


	3. Chapter 3

Jalter at rest is a rare sight to see, and yet one that Kagetora has grown used to waking to. She stirs easily, and so it’s simply natural for her to be roused by Jalter’s constant adjusting of herself, arm thrown carelessly over Kagetora’s stomach and cheek pressed to her chest. Even the bit of hair sticking up from her forehead seems restful, pliantly bending under Kagetora’s hand as she pats the top of Jalter’s head.

A grumbling, a shuffling of legs and shoulders, and Jalter’s knees knock against Kagetora’s. Kagetora feels Jalter’s weight shift briefly and uses the chance to free her other arm, wrapping it snugly around Jalter’s waist. At last, Jalter settles once again, nuzzling sleepily into Kagetora’s chest. Kagetora runs her hand over the crown of Jalter’s head, down to the base of her neck. It occurs to her how soft Jalter’s hair is, surprisingly so, not nearly as coarse and unkempt as Kagetora had imagined it to be. Of course, she knows better than to be taken by surprise by Jalter these days, and so the thought passes with only the minute curve of Kagetora’s lips to show for it.

Which is, of course, when Jalter would decide to wake up.

“Hey, Bitchamonten, what’s so funny?” Jalter’s golden eyes blink slowly as she emerges from beneath the veil of sleep. Another few moments pass before she registers the hand in her hair, still moving back and forth, and yet another for her to catch the lack of tension in her own shoulders, the indent in Kagetora’s robes where Jalter had made herself comfortable. “What now?!”

“Good morning,” Kagetora says, as she should. Then- “Touching your hair is relaxing.”

“What?” Jalter snaps, well-practiced irritation replacing a sleepy frown in the blink of an eye. “Where do you get off on- oh, fuck you!”

Kagetora giggles, opens her mouth to reply. She’s met with Jalter’s hands coming straight for her face, one clamping over her jaw to shut her up, the other going for her bangs. “I’ll show you and your stupid hair and your stupid black streaks!” Jalter shouts, her rage kindling as she scrambles for position, succeeding in grabbing a fistful of Kagetora’s hair.

She feels Kagetora grin against her palm, sees the sparkle of genuine amusement in her eyes. _ What now_, they seem to ask her, to which Jalter has no reply. But rather than let Jalter’s anger snuff out, Kagetora reaches up and pats her head again, earning a couple rapid blinks and another irritated snarl.

“Really? Oh, that does it.”

Another fist seizes more of Kagetora’s hair, and that’s Kagetora’s cue to tug on Jalter’s waist, bringing their faces together. She’s rewarded with the immediate flicker of heated pink that rises to Jalter’s pale cheeks, and the Alter looks away with gritted teeth, stammering alternating threats and excuses for finding herself in this position.

“You’re being too noisy,” Kagetora chides her. “It’s still early in the morning. Others are sleeping.”

“Yeah?” Jalter yanks back, grinds their foreheads together, if only to prove that she can. “And what’re you gonna do about that?”

In response, Kagetora tilts her chin up, and the heat in Jalter’s cheeks flares into an inferno against her lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay _now_ it's explicit!

The lights of Shinjuku slip between the blinds of the love hotel and over their bed, ripples of silver over pale flesh and darkened scars, soft robes strewn on silken sheets. Jalter's skin flushes hot beneath Kagetora's fingers, her lips. Jalter herself, red from head to toe, claws at Kagetora's back, nails leaving thin pinpricks of red that will linger for several days after, their sting a new and welcome sensation, dizzying in how it makes the blood rush to Kagetora's head. Jalter's hands climb up, up along Kagetora's neck and into her hair, seize and tug. The heave of her chest is the swell of the city around her, which she's taken as her refuge. Cars rushing by below and the distant thumping of a bassline beat get wiped away by Jalter's heated whisper, a desperate, "At least pretend you want me."

There's so much wrong with her that Jalter wouldn't fault Kagetora for leaving once they're done. The burns from overusing her Noble Phantasm stand out as shadows on her skin under the neon leaking through the windows. She's a creation that has no right existing, brought about only by a wish and her own desperate desire to keep living, no matter what, ignorant to the pain that wish would bring her. And here she is, writhing under the only god that will accept her, knowing she has no right to ask why no one else would have her when she's chased them all away herself.

And Kagetora, ever dutiful, does exactly as Jalter asks of her. She presses their bodies together, draws Jalter's voice out into the night with licks and nips and nibbles, for a few blissful moments replaces the sensation of hellfire heat with that of her own, the tangle of their limbs and Jalter's fingers in Kagetora's hair and the taste of Jalter's sweat on Kagetora's tongue.

Perhaps in the morning, Jalter will regret this. But she doesn't regret it now as Kagetora brings her to completion, as she wraps slender arms around her waist and nuzzles into the back of her neck, kisses the fading marks that stain her knuckles and the backs of her hands. She works her body back against Kagetora's, and for once she dreams that god has not left her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to be working on a longer jaltora fic but then I ended up oneshotting After Dark instead and then I wrote this as a warmup and nothing else came to me so guess who's an angry Xai, me


	5. They Have Been Rid Of Heavy Darkness

“Don’t you fucking speak to me.” The words drip like blood from her teeth, sharp as dragon’s fangs. Slitted yellow eyes churn with the violence of a firestorm. “I want nothing to do with you.”

Jeanne Alter embodies a paradox. The body of the saint, the soul of a vengeful dragon, wielding a fire torn from hell itself. The antithesis of the Saint of Orleans, captured in her form. No madness was laid upon her; it comes from her chest in a wellspring of anger. At times, it overwhelms what little restraint she possesses, and rages forth from her in the guise the twisted Gilles had wished for, a second flood to encompass the world, wrought from fire.

The Saint’s voice lilts off a blackened tongue and a charcoal-brittle snarl.

Kagetora isn’t so easily scared off. She would know better than anyone how hollow a show of strength can be. 

“What kind of god would I be if I left you alone?” Kagetora dances around Jeanne Alter with whispering steps, robes swaying shapelessly. “Doesn’t that God your original chases after deliver His faithful from the fire?”

“Yeah, and look where that got her.” Here is where Jeanne Alter would spit and curse the name of God, were her mouth not dry and her tongue heavy and laden with the taste of ashes. “You wanna be like her, Kenshit? Get burned down to the bone?”

“It would be a better death than the one I know.” Kagetora sings her reply, still playfully circling. She seems more shrine maiden than god. She feels devoted enough to burn.

“I’m telling you.” Jeanne Alter’s voice cracks like the splintering of wood under a burst of heat. “If you care about us, even a bit, you’ll leave me the fuck alone.”

“God does as he pleases.”

Jeanne Alter calls her banner before Kagetora’s laughter has had the chance to fade.

The time to beg forgiveness will come with the brightening of Chaldea’s lights and the passage of restless night into morning. Jeanne Alter will ask it of Kagetora’s embrace, and be given nothing. This is the only thing of Kagetora’s that she will know nothing of.

The reason why is simple: Jeanne Alter will never believe herself forgiven, because she doesn’t believe. She’ll let the weight of her sins compound with her grief and go roaring through Chaldea’s halls like a dragon, an untamed wild beast that’s under her command in name only. Who meets her in combat is not the god she looks for, but the one most familiar with her, who seeks no peace other than the one named total victory. Such a rivalry shouldn’t be allowed to exist, but who better than to tame a dragon than a tiger, and who better to understand a flawed creation than an imperfect god?


	6. Chapter 6

Everything burns. 

Jeanne Alter howls in Kagetora's arms, forehead pressed hard into her shoulder, inconsolable. It's the most human Kagetora's ever seen her, in that humans are so fragile. So brittle, ready to break at the slightest provocation. Jeanne Alter's soul is as obsidian. Just a touch will send her spiraling into irreparable fragments.

_It's alright,_ Kagetora wants to tell her, but Jeanne Alter would never believe her. She stays silent, letting the Alter's sobs taper into gasps, then stuttering, sweeping breaths. She keeps Jeanne Alter in her arms as she lays them both back against her futon. Her fingers curl through the Alter's tangled hair. It may be too late for her, but Kagetora can at least ensure that the woman nestled against her body doesn't suffer from the same failure as herself. In the dimness of the room, with only a loose tuft of hair to distinguish Jeanne Alter's identity, Kagetora could be forgiven if she imagined it was herself that's being held. 


	7. 1953

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a trade for Breadcrumbles
> 
> Based in part off Olafur Arnalds' [1953](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grXrvUt1vTw)

Chaldea. The shower. Jeanne Alter stands under the spray, ignoring the prickling protest of her skin. She’s been here for so long that she can’t tell any longer whether the water is hot or cold, only that she can’t feel it. That means it’s failed her, too. It’s only what she deserves, she thinks. It would be fitting that she’s offered no escape from her grief. It weighs heavy like chains around her neck, and even now she can feel it dragging her down, hunching her shoulders as she presses her forehead against the wall.

She still remembers how hot her fire had burned. Hot enough to sear even those Servants to whom calling up flame was natural. That was how she’d wanted it. She’d wanted to burn that Ruler more than she’d wanted to burn the whole of France, everything from his pristine hair to his Jesuit robes. She hadn’t noticed their Master, standing in the path of the conflagration. She’d only heard the shouts, the screaming, heated words to match hers that hurt more than any scar or flame that twists across her flesh.

Jeanne Alter grits her teeth, biting back the nascent beginnings of a sob. She won’t be weak. She doesn’t need anyone. She’s fine alone. All Avengers work alone. This incident is just a reminder of the natural order. Da Vinci had said that Gudako would recover in a day. This isn’t anything she should worry over.

Of course, Jeanne Alter isn’t one to listen to anyone, not even herself. She’s been here for what must’ve been at least an hour now, waiting. Already, she isn’t a beloved Servant among the others by any means. Someone’s bound to come looking for her to deliver anything from a scolding to revenge, and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone notices that all the hot water’s been used up.

Just as the Alter thinks this, there’s a creaking of rusted hinges. A light tread pads down the hall, stopping outside her stall. A hundred possibilities flash through Jeanne Alter’s mind; it could be her original, another Avenger. 

Then a measured voice rings out against the tiles: “Alter? That’s you, isn’t it?”

Jeanne Alter nips back her groan just as it slips past the edges of her teeth. Not Kagetora. Not now. But perhaps it’s fitting. God, come to judge her. Divine punishment and all that. 

“Oh, it is you.” Kagetora, for some strange reason, sounds oddly restrained. She taps at the curtain separating them with one hand, rustling the metal loops holding it to a rod above their heads. “May I come in?”

“I didn’t fucking say anything,” Jeanne Alter snaps.

“That’s how I knew it was you. So?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Jeanne Alter’s already hit her lowest point. Surely letting Kagetora see her like this can’t bring her down any further. If anything, she’s glad it’s Kagetora who’s found her. Jeanne Alter knows that Kagetora won’t go running off to tell anyone else what she’s found, if only because she’s got no one to talk to as well. She sits with the Servants who originated from Japan, yes, but Jeanne Alter’s never seen her carry out a lengthy conversation with one of them. It’s talking for the sake of appearances, and Jeanne Alter would know that well enough. She’d done it herself, back when she’d first arrived.

The curtain rustles, and Kagetora steps into the shower. Jeanne Alter doesn’t move to give her any space, so Kagetora makes her own. She wraps an arm around Jeanne Alter’s shoulders, not to hold her, but to shut off the water. 

“I wasn’t done with that, you bitch.”

“You’re shivering. You’ve used up so much water that you’re piping in fresh snowmelt now. Did you know that?” Kagetora’s gloved palms bear down on her shoulders, rubbing sensation back into them. It’s painful, and whether that’s from the cold or Kagetora is a question Jeanne Alter can’t bring herself to ask-- her teeth are chattering too violently.

“So what’s bothering you?” Kagetora drapes something over Jeanne Alter’s body, her rough touch allayed by the barrier of soft fabric between them. She towels the Alter off with precise and knowing movements, then winds it in her hands and begins to dry her hair. “I know something is. That’s why you’ve been hiding in here since you got back.”

“Hasn’t someone already told you?” Jeanne Alter laughs, her tone drenched with disdain. “I fucking burned up our Master. She was almost roasted when someone finally got her out. All because Avenger couldn’t keep it together long enough to let her give the orders. Well, has anyone ever considered that maybe she’s not so good of a Master if she can’t control her fucking Servant? Maybe she shouldn’t pick Servants she can’t bring to heel! Or who fuck up the only thing they’re supposed to be good at--”

“Alter.” Kagetora rests her chin on Jeanne Alter’s shoulder, craning her neck to peer at Jeanne Alter’s expression. Though the water’s shut off, there’s still fresh droplets working their way down Jeanne Alter’s cheeks. Kagetora lifts her hand, devoid of any covering but her glove, and drags her bare thumb in the path of Jeanne Alter’s tears. 

“No.” Jeanne Alter punctuates this with a harsh shake of her head. “Don’t tell me I didn’t fuck this up, ‘cause I know I did. I know it’s my fault. Don’t fucking lie to me like that--”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Kagetora pats Jeanne Alter’s cheek and leans back, removing herself from the Alter’s body. Jeanne Alter shivers involuntarily as she goes, and tells herself it’s from the cold. But then, the warmth is back: Kagetora’s hand brushes her arm, and a white robe is draped over her, smelling faintly of foreign forests and temple incense. 

“The hell’s this?” Jeanne Alter asks.

“Until you have enough energy to summon your clothes back,” Kagetora says. “Your fire takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t need your fucking clothes.”

“So you intend to walk around Chaldea in the nude?”

“Fuck off,” Jeanne Alter answers with a half-hearted shake of her head. 

“No. You know I’m not so easy to get rid of.” Again, contact-- this time, it’s Kagetora wrapping both hands around one of Jeanne Alter’s, tugging her slowly towards the door. Even in spite of the rough callouses hiding beneath her gloves, the rest of her is surprisingly soft. Perhaps that’s why Jeanne Alter allows herself to be led out of the shower stalls and towards the main hallway. 

“What if someone sees us?” Jeanne Alter mumbles right before they reach it. “I mean-- I bet I pissed a ton of Servants off. I don’t need you getting involved in my shit, too.”

“You should know better than to try and get between me and a fight,” Kagetora laughs. Her smile, kept at a careful and inquisitive grin, blossoms into fullness. 

“Is that the only reason you came and got me?”

Kagetora draws them to a stop, tugging the Alter against her body. Leaning in, so close that Jeanne Alter can smell a familiar ashenness on her skin, Kagetora whispers, “What do you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonight is a night for catching up on postings and being iraira  
Next time expect a slightly longer (maybe?) Jaltora fic because I keep threatening to turn ERROR into a fic and never showing


	8. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November by Hitorie is a solo Jalter song  
Specifically, it's a Jalter-in-Shinjuku-alone song  
Specifically, I can't stop writing Shinjuku Jalter

The wind over Jeanne Alter’s skin feels like fingers upon her neck; if not that, then smoke tickling the base of her throat. Far from refreshing, the cool night makes her want to choke. It’s too clean, too clear. Her rage howls within her like a storm, urging her to reach smoky fingers into the sky and strangle out even the ever-gleaming web of skyscraper light.

Even that won’t be enough. In the beginning, Jeanne Alter had unleashed her flame on Shinjuku far too recklessly. She remembers standing at the heart of it all, arms lifted high above her head, drowning in scars and laughter and the evanescent shimmer of the city vanishing in a sea of fire. How many had burned then; how many had fled her territory with whispers of a _ Dragon Witch _ upon their lips?

(Not enough. Never enough to satisfy her.)

She regrets it now. Where a half-dozen infernos had once walked lay the husks of burned-out buildings, spindly ghosts waiting for a rain or a strong wind to brush them apart into torrents of ash. They watch Jeanne Alter as she passes: blackened walls, wizened white beams. It’s a pattern she hates to watch repeat in the corners of her eyes. Too often it blurs together; too often she’s glimpsing red on monochrome and turning to acknowledge an impossible dream. 

(Too often, she dreams of falling into an ocean of fire, red and gold, and letting it tear her to pieces until there’s only black soot and white ash and someone, _ someone_, laughing and smiling above it all.)

Again, Jeanne Alter thinks of taking up her sword again. She’ll find more hospitable places to roam if only she would expand her territory, but she never tries. No sooner has she thought of closing her hand around the hilt of her blade than her wrist and fingers explode with violent tremors, than her senses flood with pungent iron. She’s had enough of that; she’s tired. 

(Tired in a way she’s never been before, that even her near-death couldn’t begin to describe. This is no fatigue of the flesh, but of something else— Jeanne Alter refuses to consider what.)

There’s no way out of this labyrinth she’s made for herself. No matter where she wanders, she’ll always end up somewhere colorless and charred, never any less alone. 

(Never any less enough, never _ good _ enough—)

If only she’d been stronger before; if only Gilles had made her _ right_, she wouldn’t have lost; if only her fire gave off anything but smoke, her laughter anything but false promise—

(There’s nothing in this city that can sate her, nothing worth taking, nothing worth saving

Building, building, boxed in by walls and the ever-obsidian sky

How everyone else in Shinjuku isn’t drowning in hatred is beyond her

beyond her like—

In Chaldea, it is November.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (yet another) TTRPG-influenced Jalter piece  
I've had November stuck in my head and Bread keeps enabling me  
Maybe I'll write the Sleepwalk based one once we get there. See you in seven mont- //gets mobbed by ravenous Bread


	9. sleepwalk (i)

Jeanne Alter wakes with sweat beaded thick across her forehead, hot and unbearable as a crown of thorns. Her grey surroundings chase away the last remnants of her dream: bits of red flickering into the corners of her vision. Jeanne Alter doesn’t have to remember her dream to know what it was about. Hellfire is the only thing she dreams of. The good fortune to have happier dreams rests only with her original.

Something moves behind Jeanne Alter, digging into her back. Only its softness stops the Alter’s heart from racing off madly in double time. Nothing in Jeanne Alter’s nightmares would be so gentle, its warmth so comfortable. Though there’s something heavy and firm secured around her waist, Jeanne Alter knows it’s no more rope than the presence behind her a stake. 

Still, Jeanne Alter doubts herself. Waking distorts the world in ways that should never be. More than once, she’s opened her eyes to the shifting outline of flames from her dreams. 

Slowly, Jeanne Alter turns her head. The motion stirs up movement, sound: the slightest humming, feather-light breath brushing along her shoulder. A telltale head of white and black comes into view. Jeanne Alter’s chest clenches: just Kagetora. Just her, nuzzling into Jeanne Alter’s neck, chasing out the space between them. 

Jeanne Alter remains frozen for the longest moment. She doesn’t dare to move, not even to lay her head back on the pillow. No matter how many times she wakes to this sight, she’ll never be used to it. How could she be, even though it’s started to overtake the frequency of fire; no doubt Kagetora will tire of her too, one day, and then--

The dreams. The shouting, the stake. The king who would not save her; the god who had abandoned her.

(Not just them, but the people; the country.

Jeanne Alter dreams of hellfire because she has no other home, no better place to return to.)

Kagetora shuffles behind her. The side of her head presses into Jeanne Alter’s cheek. The pressure draws her gaze-- their eyes meet. Kagetora’s are wide open, suffused with color of dragonfire. “Alter,” she murmurs with the tone of the half-asleep. “It’s too early.”

“What do you want me to do about that, huh?” Jeanne Alter snaps. 

“Mm.” Kagetora eases herself back down, making herself comfortable. Her shoulder digs against the mattress, finding a new resting spot; her arms close tight over Jeanne Alter’s hips. “Go back to sleep.”

“Easy for you to say.” Easy when your dreams, at least, have a home for your nightmares to settle.

(Kagetora knows this, and says nothing. Even behind closed doors, some things remain unspoken. Jeanne Alter’s pride will only bend so far.)

Kagetora doesn’t reply. She lays with her hands flush with the Alter’s waist, slipping steadily back into the grasp of sleep. Only a warm silence remains, tugging at the edges of Jeanne Alter’s consciousness. 

(Here, enveloped in Kagetora’s heat and the weight of her own indecision, is where she wants to belong.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is, objectively, not my best showing ever  
it's also 4 am and i wanted this off my chest


End file.
